SOARES: Sifting through pieces of the past

Sun glinted off an object hidden beneath the tangle of briars and undergrowth in the rear of the old cellar hole. I was sitting atop a log on the knoll overlooking a clearing of what was once a family homestead. That area was deep in the woods, far removed from modern day roads and, for that reason, it was one of my favorite places; a site which I visited at least once a week during the Massachusetts upland bird season.

Sun glinted off an object hidden beneath the tangle of briars and undergrowth in the rear of the old cellar hole. I was sitting atop a log on the knoll overlooking a clearing of what was once a family homestead. That area was deep in the woods, far removed from modern day roads and, for that reason, it was one of my favorite places; a site which I visited at least once a week during the Massachusetts upland bird season.

It had been a frigid morning with heavy frost on the undergrowth so we made no attempt to hit the woods at first light, but waited for the sun to burn off the frost and improve scenting conditions. That was a season when the grouse population was on the increase and birds, although easier to find, were no less difficult to hit. I had hunted this area for a decade and always wondered why there were several clearings and a small meadow with old fruit trees and chalked that up to dispersal and transplanting by birds.

Our Brittany spaniel Ted found the cellar hole invited there by the delectable scent of wild grouse. That wily offspring of the king of game birds had worked its way up a rabbit burrow to get at the shriveled blueberry bush growing where the sunlight penetrated the briars. I followed the little dog who worked the scent until he locked up on point quivering with expectation. It has been my experience that grouse usually have an exit strategy and this bird was no exception. I passed the little dog following the direction of his muzzle and kicked at the briars and was greeted by the explosive exit of the startled bird. By the time I snapped the shotgun to my shoulder, the bird had flown around then behind the stand of evergreens and I never got off a shot. Such is the life of a grouse hunter; we spend countless hours in the pursuit of this magnificent game bird and occasionally we are rewarded with a bird in hand.

That chance encounter brought me back to that primitive homestead, and from that day on whenever I hunted that cover I planned my time so as to take a break when the sun warmed the little hillside that overlooked the abandoned farmstead. They were times of reflection and contemplation during which time I imagined the composition of that family and the hardships they endured in their pursuit of scratching out a rugged existence. Life in the woods was difficult in this hilly terrain using primitive equipment to till with and all the surface boulders and exposed rocks made them plant their crops between the obstacles creating those little meadows that had so far beaten back nature’s reclamation efforts.

On a later trip, I came at the cellar hole from the bottom crossing a stream where the homesteaders probably got their water and, at that time, the early morning sun illuminated several objects directly behind the cellar hole. I was aware that very few people hunted or frequented this area and thought it was odd that there would be glass or metal in an area under such thick briars. I tried to get into that spot but the briars were impenetrable, so on my next trip I brought along a pair of pruning clippers. We moved three grouse and a woodcock on the next trip and I never fired a shot. The dog pointed every one of those birds but they ran and flushed out behind a tree or out of range. I was disappointed, but this trip was as much about historical exploration as hunting.

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It was a cold day but as I began cutting into the thicket, I could see pieces of glass on top. The homestead was located on a knoll so any rain would wash by, and that appears to be what happened. That fall, heavy rains had washed away the top soil over what we determined to be the family disposal area; a large hole that contained bottles, broken hand tools and old blue speckled cooking ware. The first big piece I unearthed was a Granite Ware coffee pot with a broken handle along with several other pieces of similar construction which I recognized from the Western movies and the pieces the old-timers used in the Weetamoe Yacht Club kitchen.

Every piece I unearthed brought more questions than answers about the family that made their homestead here. In numerous trips to that location, we cleared brush and dug through their disposal heap, where we found old medicine bottles and more Granite Ware. I hoped the Granite Ware would help put a date on the site but it didn’t. Granite Ware has been around since 1878 and it went on to win a prize at the Paris World’s Fair before the turn of the century. To further complicate matters, there were other companies that made similar looking speckled cooking utensils. Research showed that Sears sold this cookware and a 1940 ad offered 24 pieces for the princely sum of $4.71. What a deal!

My boys looked forward to visiting the homestead and we spent many an enjoyable afternoon digging through the site where the family had discarded their refuse. While there were no manufactured toys, there was evidence of at least one child with what we determined were homemade playthings. Despite the fact that rain, snow and natural erosion had changed the surrounding land, it was obvious that the cellar hole was where the family kept their stores of canned food and meats as evidenced by the broken canning jars and rusted covers.

How committed was that family’s desire to become self-sufficient that they were willing to put up with numerous hardships? I can only imagine. As I sat on the homestead knoll on a sunny December afternoon, I speculated on how the family survived in their little section of the wilderness. I wondered if they selected a nearby evergreen for their Christmas tree and if they visited family or other nearby farmers and homesteaders during the holidays. I think of the adversity they endured and whether they ever ran out of food or wood for their hearth.

At the time, we were struggling with raising two children and making payments on a new home and I was worrying about Christmas presents for my wife and children. Adding to my consternation was the absurd scheduling practice which caused my auto, home and excise taxes to fall due on the first week of December. Yet when I considered all the hardship the homesteaders endured, I realize that my Christmas concerns and predicaments were trivial and that I was privileged rather than deprived when compared to those rugged pioneers.

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There was a time when I wished I were born 100 years earlier, but as I matured I realized that not everyone is cut out to be a pioneer. At this time of the season, I would ask you to consider what the pioneers endured as they paved the way for the eventual towns and cities that grew up from their humble beginnings, and compare their lives and struggles to our own. That reflection has given me a much clearer perspective of my own circumstances and an appreciation for my many blessings.

Merry Christmas to you and yours and good health during the holidays and throughout the coming year.